He swallowed nervously when he first saw her because he’d never seen someone quite like her before. He had seen all of her already, every inch of flesh, but this was different. When all was said and done, the games were done. Both of them had won and both of them had lost, simultaneously, and it mattered now to settle accounts.
Seeing her in his purple shirt and a pair of knickers was somehow more intimate than seeing her in anything else he had seen her in so far: her battle armour at Mycroft’s, his dressing gown, nothing at all. There was a tantalizing promise in this, because now, for the first time in their acquaintance, they were equals. He had won and then been bested by sentiment; she had lost but then won what felt like the final battle because he had come to save her.
And now they were alone in the aftermath, waiting to see what the next move was.
They wouldn’t get much time here, just a night, and then it would be on to a different place, and soon enough Irene would move on to take a different name, a whole new identity, and whether he would be a part of her new life was still undetermined. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be, if whatever was to happen between them would only be a one-time thing or have the potential for continuance, but–
She got into the bed next to him, lifting up the thin sheet and blanket and curling into him. He hesitated a moment, then put an arm around her shoulders to keep her close. This was a comfort she seemed to need. Irene was almost as cool under pressure as his brother was, but she had nearly died.
She had nearly died.
It didn’t fill him with a wild desire or an urge to abandon all propriety and tell her his deepest darkest thoughts, that he cared about her and thought of her in ways that perhaps he should not, but instead it brought about an urge to protect her. He tentatively pressed a kiss in her hair, currently hanging down about her shoulders, and was rewarded with an arm snaking around his waist and soon, almost imperceptible to his ears, the sound of soft, steady breathing that indicated Irene was asleep, curled up next to him, feeling safe.
He knew then, no matter what else happened, their paths would forever be intertwined, and he would do all he could to keep her safe. Sentiment…perhaps she had won the war after all. And maybe he would tell her that, someday.
But not tonight. Tonight, she would sleep, safe and secure, and he would join her in peace.
I have no idea what I was drawing, please give me a conversation😆
Challenge accepted. Here’s a conversation:
“Sherlock, it’s the only way.”
“No.” His face hardens, but if there is a soft curl in the angry line of his brow, it’s only because of her. Only because she is the one who gives this ultimatum. His next words sound more like a plea than the declaration it was meant to be. “I cannot cross this line, Woman. I refuse to cross this line.”
Not even for her. God, not even for her. The words hang between them like a noose weighed down by the choice he has to make: his own code, or the Woman.
“If you won’t do it for me, do it for her.”
Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Her?”
The Woman’s hand eases its tight grip on the table and reaches for his. Automatically, almost reflexively, his fingers twitch to reciprocate, but Sherlock forces his own hand to be still.
But she takes his hand anyway, and he cannot find it in himself to wrench it away. Gently, she places his hand over her belly. “Her.”
marvelfangirlandsherlockian4ever 